Chess, death, and love
by sycamoretree
Summary: They played chess. Eames started talking about death. That got Arthur thinking. And love showed itself somewhere in the midst of their evening. Established relationship, romantic, oneshot, no character death!


**So, I got a cold and ended up watching Inception which inevitably made me ship Arthur/Eames. What can I say, they've got an incredible amount of UST. Story after story began breeding in my mind and this is the first one. Perhaps a tad dark, but I've noticed that not many dare to write about death. Hope you like it anyway. Established relationship, no character death IRL.  
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**Chess, death, and love**

_"__Death smiles__ at __us all__. __All__ a __man can do__ is __smile back__. – Maximus; "Gladiator"_

"How would you like to die?"

The random question threw Arthur off his track completely when he was contemplating whether he would use his remaining horse as a decoy, or sacrifice his bishops in a Lasker-Bauer combination.

He looked up from the chessboard and observed how Eames was anxiously nibbling on his thumb rather distractingly in the soft evening light. The forger was losing royally yet again thanks to his hedonistic, and not really rewarding, strategy of drinking scotch and continuously getting sidetracked by the vibrant street-life below their balcony instead of following the game and prepare his next move.

"Is that a proposal?" Arthur asked slowly, while letting his eyes sweep over the nut-brown strands that had escaped from Eames' slicked hair during his desperate struggle to protect his pieces from Arthur's onslaught.

A soft expression bloomed out on the Englishman's face. "More of a hypothetical question, I'm afraid. Excuse my clumsy phrasing," he let out and began to tap his grey-clad leg which was propped on the third chair. Arthur rolled his shoulders and leaned back in his own seat, sensing they wouldn't play for a while. It happened that they took a break when Eames felt particularly discouraged that Arthur kicked his ass.

"So you're asking me in what way I would like to kick the bucket one day?"

"Yes," Eames replied and looked too tempting in the dangerous mixture of golden light from their hotel room, and the dark-blue color of the tropic night outside.

Arthur folded his arms and gave himself some moments to think. "This is a very private subject, Eames," he ended up saying and a displeased glint appeared in those bear-eyes of his.

"We are very private now, aren't we? Not on a job, just you and me, anonymous in a beautiful country, and sharing a bed each night. I'd say it's perfectly fine to ask such a question now."

"But what if I don't want to answer?" Arthur retorted triumphantly and grinned at the look of pure surprise on Eames' face. The man hadn't thought of that, apparently. It felt good to know he was winning over Eames in both chess and debate right now, although he did acknowledge Eames current disadvantage after having indulged strong drinks. He decided to have mercy on him. "I'll tell you what; I can answer this if you promise to tell me your own choice."

Immediately, Eames raised his head and nodded eagerly which made Arthur laugh at his ridiculous behavior. Then he began musing over the not so shallow question. Memories from many disastrous dreams came to his mind and he suppressed the urge to shudder.

"I don't want to feel pain, at least. I've experienced enough of that in dreams to stand a drawn-out, torturous demise," he began and Eames knocked back the rest of his amber drink and licked his lips clean. For a moment, it distracted Arthur from the subject but then the point man seized control over his mind and pulled up his sleeves above his wrists so the gentle breeze could cool them.

While he fumbled with his shirt, Arthur continued, "I think I'd want to lie in a bed, get to sleep, but be aware that I wouldn't wake up, and still be content with it. I guess my biggest wish is to pass away from old age, not illness, physical or mental. I'm afraid that's not how I'll go in real life."

At the end, his voice trailed off, as he pictured much more realistic deaths. It just seemed likely he would end up in an accident, or murdered by enemies since his trade involved provoking very influential people, or worse; get stuck in limbo.

"I fear I'm not going to see forty."

The interested expression fell from Eames' face and unease replaced it. "My God. You're actually serious," he gasped quietly and Arthur couldn't bear meeting what he knew would be shocked eyes.

"We're the first generation doing dream-sharing and inception. No-one knows what that will do to us in the long run. Eames, you can't believe messing this much with your head is good for you. Not to mention the illegal aspects of the work. We are always on the run, and someday we'll get tired of running, or the agents will catch up."

"Arthur", Eames sighed, swallowing the r's in his British way of speech, instead whispering the syllables and giving his name a sort of intimate, breathless ring. "Why haven't you told me about these thoughts before?"

A humorless laugh escaped Arthur and he placed five fingertips on Eames' conquered rook, knights and two pawns, and rocked the rook from side to side absently. "Do you have the energy or luck to stay one step ahead of the law and the enemies forever? I don't think I have. But at least I got the chance to try dream-sharing. And we're so good at it we don't even have to finish each other that often anymore."

Arthur closed his eyes and silently prayed neither of them would have to kill each other more times than necessary in dreams. Especially without guns. It took a toll on their souls every time.

Fingers around neck, squeezing mercilessly and yet mercifully to spare the other from prolonged suffering, snapping a neck and feel the wobbly head for one awful moment, hands covering bloodied mouth and nose. Getting hands smeared with thick blood that should stay in the veins, even in dreams. Taking a remaining knife from a wound and stab the fading heart. Begging the other to end the suffering.

Eames and Arthur were familiar with the concept of death in dreams, but the prospect of the real death now disturbed Arthur.

What brought him back from his dark thoughts was Eames stretching his leg under the table and nudging Arthur's foot. He turned his somber eyes to the forger whose charisma always was contagious. Eames radiated kindness, intensity, and a clash of class and rebellion. "There's my killjoy," the man said gently and flashed him a fleeting smile.

Arthur exhaled and shook off the depressive feeling. "You're the one who introduced this subject, asshole," he replied, without bite though, as he pushed down the pieces under his hand. When a pawn began to roll towards the edge of the table, Eames winced at the sight of the chessboard. The kamikaze-pawn was stopped by Arthur's wrist and the silence returned.

"And what about me? My death?" Eames asked. Arthur snorted, clearly seeing through Eames' badly concealed reluctance to resume the game, before he pensively studied the empty glass on the table, and the horrible brown, short-sleeved shirt his lover thought suited the trendy grey trousers. The answer was obvious.

"I think you'd want to go out with a bang, die at a party, with a glass in your hand and the tie loose around your neck from dancing. Maybe suffer a heart attack in a room away from the dance and just wave at the beautiful people who come to wonder how you are, and tell them, 'Go back and have fun. And make a toast to me.'"

The Englishman widened his eyes and a doubtful expression was displayed on his face. "Really? That's what you're envisioning for my demise? Partying with strangers?"

"Eames, it's not a prediction of how you actually will die; it's just my theory on how you would want to go," Arthur chuckled but the morbid turn of the conversation caught up with him and he felt a tightening over his chest at the mere thought of a dead Eames.

"What would you have happen to yourself, then?" he wondered and tipped his head to the side. A blush crept up Eames' cheeks and he gave a coy cough. This strikingly handsome, tall, luminous man could be incredibly cute and unsure at times, and it was only Arthur who had the honor of seeing that side of him.

"For me, it's always been about making the most of your life because death is inevitable. When the future is unsure to all of us, during our lives and in the moment of death, it's useless to wish to go one way or another. The passing is an absolute anyway, right?" he said carefully and shifted in his seat. The rustling of his ugly retro shirt abruptly awoke Arthur from his relaxed state of just listening to Eames' husky voice.

"Wait, so you're telling me you don't have a preferred option? Fuck, Eames, that's not an answer when I just told you mine," he argued irritatingly when a big hand in the air halted his protest.

"Don't get upset, darling. I wasn't quite finished. I meant that whatever happens to me, it's not my death I would care about in my moment of death. That would come eventually. But I wish I could have a saying in how my surroundings would be like."

"What do you mean?" Arthur murmured, intrigued by the clearly elaborated, well thought-out reply Eames was hinting at.

"If I'm going, I would want someone I love by my side, calming me by their mere presence as we wait. If it was possible, maybe I wouldn't mind a few comforting words, like, 'I love you. It's going to be fine. You'll be fine wherever you go and I promise I'll be fine here until we meet again.' Assuming we could talk at all, that is, I would answer straight back, 'And I love you. Always have, even when you thought I didn't. I've been happy with you. Take care of yourself. I love you.'"

The silence that followed was not exactly tense but also not pleasant. More deafening than anything else, but maybe the street that had now gone quiet was to blame for that.

Arthur looked down at his lap and could make out spots on his beige trousers. Without his knowledge, tears had trickled down his face and stained the fabric. The muscles in his throat cramped and he dug the heels of his palms in his eyes when the first audible sob was wrenched from him.

Instantly, a chair made a screeching noise against the floor and then Eames was kneeling at his side, grasping his arms. "Oh, Arthur," he blurted out and guided the hands softly but determinedly away from his sad face.

"I may actually love you very much, Mr. Eames."

Arthur believed the dreams and the jobs would all catch up with him one unfortunate day and rob him of his life one way or another. That didn't mean he wanted Eames to suffer same fate.

"I don't want you to die in a long time and not without me by your side," he whimpered and bent his head and took a small kiss Eames automatically gave him. When Arthur withdrew, Eames looked so infuriatingly concerned it broke Arthur's heart.

"I'm right here now, darling. Feel me," Eames mumbled and tipped his head, and brought Arthur's head back down so their lips met.

"I'm here. The warmth, the wetness, the blood-filled flesh. Feel it, Arthur," the man spoke against his lips and opened his mouth to Arthur who didn't hesitate on exploring Eames' damp cavern and sliding his tongue hungrily over his. A rumbling moan trembled through Eames to Arthur and suddenly his hands were busy making their way up under the brown shirt so he could skim his fingers over Eames' bare skin.

The sensation of feeling Eames' soft lips move under his was slowly eating away the sorrow. Arthur greedily caressed the taut chest while Eames was squirming sensually on the spot, enjoying himself thoroughly. Arthur ended it by lightly biting into Eames obscenely full lower lip and the groans both of them exchanged made his insides boil. He sunk his teeth harder into the proffered flesh. A jolt went through Eames.

"Oh, God. Arthur, I…" Eames gritted out and his hands gripped his shoulders harder. With apparent difficulty, the Englishman swallowed down the arousal and got up from the floor but remained in Arthur's space. They stared at each other with hazy eyes. Arthur allowed Eames to sweep a hand through his black hair and pet his nape.

"So, Eames mumbled and gestured at the untouched chessboard where the white squares had become hard to distinguish from the black, "will you take my king, then?"

"No. I can't bring myself to finish you, this…the game, I mean. I'm silly, I know. I want to go to bed. Just leave it," he all but begged and Eames nodded earnestly.

"Okay. Come along then."

And Arthur took his hand and was pulled to his feet. Ever the rational one in the relationship, he closed the balcony doors behind him, wanting to contain the cool air the AC provided.

To win in chess meant nothing to him now. The talk of death had made him want to celebrate life in the extreme, namely to make love.

He went to Eames.

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**Aww, good ending, huh? Send me a comment with your thoughts!**


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